


Are you there, God? It's me, Marco

by Balori



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: GOP - Freeform, Healing, Presidential Race 2016, Recovery, Republican Party - Freeform, Self-Loathing, US Politics - Freeform, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 13:19:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6286264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Balori/pseuds/Balori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of vignettes offering insight into fictional!Marco Rubio's life after dropping out of the Presidential Race. He gave it a good shot - in fact, he gave it everything he had: but does he have enough left in him for a life without that prospect? </p>
<p>This is only partly serious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Are you there, God? It's me, Marco

**Author's Note:**

> I have a bad habit of writing vignettes/pieces of flash fiction based on political discussions I have on Facebook. This is what happens when someone says I should upload the vignettes to AO3. I didn't even know AO3 has a political fan fiction page. I still don't know how to feel about it.
> 
> "Chapters" will serve more as installations if I/when I (am pressured to) write more. THIS IS NOT IN ANY CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER after the first two vignettes. Maybe one day I'll put some order to it.

So, it had come to this? 

Marco Rubio made himself stand up a little taller, rolling his shoulders back as he tried to comprehend what had happened. This wasn't a surprise. His team had been bracing for a day like today, but not like this; they didn't want to drop out on a day where he had lost the state he had called home and proudly served, to say nothing of losing it to a sun-damaged, knuckle-dragging  _ingrate_ - 

He took a deep breath. No. He had a speech to give. He had people to face. If he had to concede, he would concede with grace. 

He would deal with his bruised ego and his broken heart later.

* * *

 

The first "We love you Marco!" from the Florida crowd almost made his voice crack during his speech. Home. This state - these people - were home, and he lost- 

"I love you too," he said instead, trying to shove aside intrusive, caustic thoughts. But as he delivered his speech - dissociating, almost robotic in how easily the words came to his lips on auto-pilot - those thoughts came back and he recognized an ugly, slimy voice narrating the past few months, the near year he had spent trying to make his dreams and vision a reality. 

An ugly, slimy voice that referred to him as "Little Marco."

His jaw clenched. He took a deep breath. He would finish this speech without breaking.

* * *

 

"Never mind I'll find someone like you..." Marco Rubio whispered up at the White House, stark and imposing against the backdrop of a starless night sky. It had not been an easy night for him (though none of his nights had been easy since he had to drop out of the Presidential race). His supply of Nutella-to-go was running low and there were still three hours until daybreak. Maybe he could call in sick to the Senate...again...

Suddenly, Adele's keening melodies came to an abrupt halt. His stomach dropped. Marco reached for his iPod Classic, frantically trying to turn it on. An empty battery graphic appeared on the screen.

He fell to the ground with a cry of grief.

* * *

 

A low hum of whispers broke out as Marco shuffled into the Senate chambers. It was his first appearance since he had dropped out of the Presidential race; Ben Franklin's face flashed between the palms of senators and legislative assistants who had almost all made bets on when the disgraced former Republican candidate would show up.

The few smiling faces were those of people who had won their bets. The rest had either assumed careful neutrality or expressions of pity. "No one thinks badly of you," his campaign manager had quietly assured him, but he couldn't help but flinch away from the pitying faces.

He was unshaven, he knew. His erstwhile perfectly coiffed hair was unwashed, he knew. His shoes were scuffed, his clothes were wrinkled, his fingers were unmanicured, all this he knew. But what he didn't know, as he sat down in his chair and smoothed down the lapel of his coat, was that his US flag pin was missing.

He froze. He closed his eyes as if in pain. He sunk further into his seat.

A gavel called today's session to order.


End file.
